


andrei, pierre, and the boring spring break of unimportant year

by letthecitybreathe



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, it was destined for great things. and then i started watching naruto, its been in my fic folder since like 2016. i will never finish it. i am sorry, unfinished but PUBLISHED ANYWAY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-12 23:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14738025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letthecitybreathe/pseuds/letthecitybreathe
Summary: “I love you and there is no explosion. I love you and instead, there is quiet. I love you in the way that creates, not destroys.”It's the twenty first century in a small mountain town in North Carolina, and Pierre Bezukhov is in love with Andrei Bolkonsky. It doesn't change anything.





	andrei, pierre, and the boring spring break of unimportant year

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS UNFINISHED AND VAGUE AND I AM SORRY. andrei is probably ooc. i don't know. i wrote like all of this when i was 17. everyone is overdramatic because they are Dumb Teenagers and it's set in black mountain north carolina and everyone is inexplicably jewish, because i want them to be

_“I love you and there is no explosion. I love you and instead, there is quiet. I love you in the way that creates, not destroys.”_

It hit him when Andrey texted him about Natasha, just a short bundle of words and punctuation that felt like a punch in the gut.

_‘finally Talking With A Capital T to natasha :)’_

“Oh, shit,” Pierre muttered to himself. “Shit, shit, _shit_.” He’s in love with Andrey Bolkonsky, who’s Talking With A Capital T to _Natasha Rostov_. Andrey’s had a crush on her since they were _kids_ , and Pierre’s fucking in love with him.

The world, apparently, enjoys laughing in Pierre’s face.

 

 

“Let’s go to the Blue Cone,” Pierre says. They’ve been laying on Andrey’s bed for hours, at first joking around and then turning to just dicking around on their phones in silence. It’s starting to get to him, and he’s afraid he might just blurt it out. _I love you. I love you._  

“Pierre,” Andrey says, in that voice he uses whenever Pierre’s done something stupid. “It’s literally raining outside right now.”

“They’ve got the sheltered seats! Or we could, like, sit in your car or something. It’s not _mandatory_ that you sit on the benches outside.”

“It’s _Blue Cone_ , of course you have to sit on the benches outside. Didn’t you have a _childhood_ , Pierre, honestly.”

“ _Fine_ , ugh, then let’s go to the Dripolator, since it’s all indoors or whatever,” Pierre says.

“Why do we have to go _anywhere_?” Andrey says. “I thought today was supposed to be _stay home all day and only move for food and going to the bathroom_ day.”

“When the fuck did we agree on that? I don’t remember that conversation.”

Andrey’s staring at him, though, eyes squinted as if it’ll help him see into Pierre’s mind. “This is about Helene, isn’t it,” he asks, except it’s less of a question and more of a statement.

“What,” Pierre says. “Why the fuck would it be about Helene, you absolute _tit_.”

Andrey’s already made up his mind, though, and he’s nodding as if this makes perfect sense despite the fact that Helene and Pierre broke up _ages_ ago. Or, like, a month and a half. Semantics, or whatever.

“Yes,” he says, starting to rub his hands together like he’s coming up with his grand master plan to help Pierre get over the love of his life rather than the girl he only really dated because everyone expected them to, and like, _high school_.

“Andrey, I dated her for a _month_. I don’t care,” Pierre says, even though he knows at this point it’s useless, really. Andrey’s been so determined since he and Natasha started Talking With A Capital T, acting so _different_ , all _“the world is good”_ and _“we can make a difference”_ and so unlike his usual doomy and gloomy self. Pierre misses it, almost, despite how much he loves seeing Andrey smile. Doom and gloom is normal. Pierre knows how to handle doom and gloom.

Andrey’s already lurched forward, though, and clutched Pierre’s face in his hands so his cheeks are all smushed together and his lips are puckering out like a stupid fish. “Listen,” Andrey says, with the same air of importance he uses whenever he gets touted around as _Andrey Bolkonsky, son of Old Mayor Bolkonsky who everyone loved_ , only far more exaggerated and far more sarcastic. “I, Andrey Bolkonsky, _guarantee_ that I will get you, Pierre Bezukhov, over your stupid emotions and heal your broken heart.”

And with that, Andrey jumps off of his bed and grabs Pierre’s wrist, dragging him through his house and towards the T.V. room.

“My heart isn’t even _broken_ ,” he grumbles, for the _thousandth time_ , but Andrey doesn’t listen.

“You flip the sofa cushions so we can eat on the couch. I’ll grab the snacks,” is all Andrey says as he runs down the stairs, leaving Pierre alone with a confused Mary Bolkonsky, who is trying her best not to stare at Pierre too much but obviously failing.

“Andrey thinks Helene broke my heart even though I really don’t care about any of that,” he blurts out in one breath, words all rushed together.

This seems to be explanation enough for Mary. “It’s best to just let him go with it,” she says as she turns back to her copy of the Jewish Daily Forward. “He did the same thing when Anatole called me boring.” It’s very matter of fact, the way she says it, as if she hadn’t moped for a week and spent recess crying in the bathroom. Pierre doesn’t mention the historical inaccuracy. Some things are better left unsaid, and everyone knows Mary is sensitive.

“You didn’t do a very good job of flipping the couch cushions,” Andrey says, breathless with a bag of cheese puffs and chips clutched in his hand, standing at the top of the stairs. It shouldn’t make Pierre’s head swim the way it does.

Andrey then thrusts the bags towards Pierre, and he takes them, somewhat dazed. This is stupid. Pierre is so stupid.

Pierre just stands there, dumbstruck, staring as Andrey shoos Mary off the couch and flips the cushions of the all-white sofa so they’re upside down and they can successfully get away with eating on the couch. Bolkonsky may be old and nearly senile, but he’s nothing if not a pain in the ass over stains on his stupid fucking all-white sofa.

 

 

It always comes crashing down, because they’re stupid high schoolers in stupid social circles with stupid hierarchies and drama, and something _always_ has to go wrong.

“What do you mean, Natasha was going to go dancing with Anatole?” he says, heart racing in his chest. _What._

“The Kuragins were staying _right fucking next door_ Bezukhov _right next door_ we were in fucking _Cancun_ why do they have a beach house right next to mine you have to _do_ something talk some sense into Anatole he’s ruined _everything_ Natasha’s social status is going to be- ”

“Marya, calm the fuck down.” If she were less heated Pierre would worry about her berating him for cutting her off, but she’s clearly some sort of fucked up to be shouting down the phone line all the way down in fucking Cancun in a frenzy over _dancing_. “I have no fucking clue what you’re saying.”

“Oh, for fuck’s _sake_ Pierre you fucking idiot he was going to take her on a _date_ and what the fuck about _Anatole_ and what the fucking _fuck_ Pierre I swear on everything you love if you don’t _fix this_ \- ”

“Anatole has a _girlfriend_ ,” Pierre says dumbly, cutting Marya off again. God, she’s going to flame his ass for this.

But that seems to stop her, jolt her back to her senses. At least, Pierre _thinks_ it does, up until her voice comes down the phone, cold and hard like steel. “ _What_ ,” she says, “do you mean he has a _girlfriend._ ”

“Um,” Pierre stutters out haltingly. “I. Thought you knew?”

“Of course I didn’t fucking _know_!” she says, high pitched and strung out. He feels a stab of sympathy for her among his wishes that she’d just be _quiet_.

“I’ll talk to him,” he says, doing his best to sound sincere rather than exhausted. It’d been raining all week.

“You fucking better,” she says, and then hangs the phone up on him.

It takes him a minute to process what he’s promised to do, and then he throws himself backwards onto his bed, pulling his pillow out from under his head and shoving it in his face so he can yell without disturbing anyone. It’s next to impossible to talk to Anatole reasonably. Pierre’s _tried_ before. It never fucking works.

Oh, God. What is he going to tell Andrey?

 

 

He’s on his fifth attempt at calling Anatole’s phone when he finally caves and calls Helene instead. Pierre’s fairly certain she won’t pick up, but she finally does on the third ring.

“Finally came crawling back, huh,” she says. Pierre can never tell when she’s joking or being serious. She’s always like this.

“Anatole wasn’t picking up,” he says lamely. “Marya asked me to call him.”

Pierre hears her heave out a long-winded sigh from the other end of the line, and he can just see her grumpily puling herself upright from where she was lounging, but still sitting as if she’s a queen lounging upon her throne.

“I’ll get him,” she says, and Pierre hears the weird static of her setting the phone down and then her muffled yelling. He pieces together Anatole’s name, his name, and something about shouting. He’s sure she got the point across.

There’s another moment of awkward static, and then Anatole’s speaking through the line, exhausted and grumpy. “What the fuck do you want, Pierre?” he says.

“How about starting with leaving Natasha alone?” he replies, and he almost crosses his arms across his chest as if he were scolding Anatole in person.

“Not you too, Pierre.”

“Do you understand what the fuck you’ve done? You know Natasha’s naïve.”

“Oh, so are you saying she’s dumb? You can’t seriously think that lowly of her.”

“Quit playing dumb, asshole. You know what I mean.”

“Oh, so now you’re saying _I’m_ dumb?”

“For fucks sake, Anatole, you know that everyone else has _emotions_ , right? And feelings and shit?”

“Quick fucking swearing at me,” Anatole says

**Author's Note:**

> im on tumblr at [senjutouka]()! even tho this is unfinished and ive moved on to Other Things i fucking love this au so feel free to talk to me abt it!


End file.
